At Some Disputed Barricade by Anne Perry Page B

give it to them,” Shearing ordered. “There’s plenty more to be getting on with. There’s an unusually high number of accidents at the munitions factory in Derby—Johnson Heathman and Company. I—”
    “I’ll give it to Bell,” Matthew interrupted him almost without realizing that he did so. “Tom Corracher came to see me two days ago with something far more urgent.”
    Shearing’s brows rose and his eyes were bright and cold. “More urgent than sabotage of our munitions factories, and yet you left it for two days to come and tell me?”
    Matthew remained at attention. He had worked with Shearing since before the war, and at times their tacit understanding of each other was like the best sort of friendship. They did not speak of emotions. Even last week when they had sat up all night together over merchant shipping losses, bruised at heart over the deaths of hundreds of men, no words had been necessary. To Matthew these losses were infinitely more vivid since his experiences during the Battle of Jutland. Now he knew the slow, crawling fear of night patrol when the enemy could be anywhere under the dark water and fire, explosion, and drowning came without any warning at all. He knew the head-splitting noise of the great guns, the smell of blood and fire.
    And he knew what it was like to sink an enemy ship and watch it go down, with a thousand men just like yourself, to be buried in the darkness of the ocean forever.
    What he did not know was anything of the nature or the passions, the background, the home or family of the man sitting behind the desk now, waiting for his explanation. He did not even know if Shearing had ever personally seen anyone die. Perhaps for him it was numbers, something all in the mind, like a chess game.
    There was one picture in Shearing’s office, a painting of the London docks at twilight, and nothing else that betrayed his taste, his feelings, his own inner life. There were no books except those of a professional nature; no novels, no poetry. There were no photographs on the desk or the walls. He never mentioned his family, if he had any, or where he lived or had grown up, his school or university—nothing.
    There had been many times when Matthew had wondered if Shearing himself could be the Peacemaker, before he knew it was Hannassey. It was a fear that had gripped him with an acute sadness. He had wanted to like Shearing. He found it easy to admire him. The suppleness of his mind, his occasional dry wit, the self-mastery and the dedication which kept him at his desk all day and half the night. It was the ability to trust him that had eluded Matthew, until Jutland had proved that the Peacemaker was Hannassey. Then suddenly relief, sweeter than he had expected, swept away suspicion. Now the trust was eroded again. Still he had no choice but to tell Shearing what he was doing; to attempt it secretly would betray his doubt, and he could not afford that.
    “Reavley!” Shearing’s voice cut across Matthew’s thoughts impatiently.
    “Yes, sir!” Matthew snapped his attention back. “It was a story I needed to investigate before I brought it to you. I couldn’t judge the importance of it without making some careful inquiries.”
    “And you found it true.” That was a statement.
    “It seems to be.”
    “Then sit down, man, and tell me!” Shearing snapped. “Don’t stand there like a damn lamppost!”
    “Yes, sir.” Matthew pulled up the chair and sat down. He recounted everything that Corracher had said, and how much of it he had been able to verify.
    “And you believe that the removals of these four men are connected?” Shearing asked when Matthew finished. “Who do you consider responsible? Hannassey is dead.”
    “Yes, sir,” Matthew responded, knowing the words were meaningless.
    There was a wry amusement in Shearing’s eyes. “One of his disciples taken his mantle of power?”
    “I don’t know, sir. That is first among the many things I would like to find out.